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chairs set in the bow window. Henrietta’s claws clicked in soft counterpoint as she followed.
    Presently heated against the cold outside, the room was filled with rioting plants—ferns, exotic creepers, and strange-smelling herbs. Combining with the scents, the faint yet pervasive smell of earth and growing things soothed and reassured.
    Sinking into one of the cushioned chairs, Leonora looked out over the winter garden. She should report meeting Trentham to her uncle and Jeremy; if he called later and mentioned it, it would appear odd if she hadn’t. Both Humphrey and Jeremy would expect some description of Trentham, yet assembling a word picture of the man she’d met on the pavement less than an hour ago wasnot straightforward. Dark-haired, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, dressed elegantly, and patently of the first stare—the superficial characteristics were simple to define.
    Less certain was the impression she’d gained of a man outwardly charming and inwardly quite different.
    That impression had owed more to his features, to the sharpness in his heavy-lidded eyes, not always concealed by his long lashes, the almost grimly determined set of mouth and chin before they’d softened, the harsh lines of his face before they’d eased, adopting a cloak of beguiling charm. It was an impression underscored by other physical attributes—like the fact he’d not even flinched when she’d run full tilt into him. She was taller than the average; most men would at least have taken a step back.
    Not Trentham.
    There were other anomalies, too. His behavior on meeting a lady he’d never set eyes on before, and could not have known anything of, had been too dictatorial, too definite. He’d actually had the temerity to interrogate her, and he’d done it, even knowing she’d noticed, without a blink.
    She was accustomed to running the house, indeed, to running all their lives; she’d performed in that role for the past twelve years. She was decisive, confident, assured, in no way intimidated by the male of the species, yet Trentham…what was it about him that had made her, not exactly wary but watchful, careful?
    The remembered sensations their physical contact had evoked, not once but multiple times, rose in her mind; she frowned and buried them. Doubtless some disordered reaction on her part; she hadn’t expected to collide with him—it was most likely some strange symptom of shock.
    Moments passed; she sat staring through the windows, unseeing, then shifted, frowned, and focused her mind on defining where she and her problem now were.
    Regardless of Trentham’s disconcerting presence, she’d extracted all she’d needed from their meeting. She’d learned the answer to what had been her most pressing question—neither Trentham nor his friends were behind the offers to buy this house. She accepted his word unequivocally; there was that about him that left no room for doubt. Likewise, he and his friends were not responsible for the attempts to break in, nor the more disturbing, infinitely more unnerving attempts to scare her witless.
    Which left her facing the question of who was.
    The latch clicked; she turned as Castor walked in.
    “The Earl of Trentham has called, miss. He’s asked to speak with you.”
    A rush of thoughts tumbled through her mind; a flurry of unfamiliar feelings flitted in her stomach. Inwardly frowning, she quelled them and rose; Henrietta rose, too, and shook herself. “Thank you, Castor. Are my uncle and brother in the library?”
    “Indeed, miss.” Castor held the door for her, then followed. “I left his lordship in the morning room.”
    Head high, she glided into the front hall, then stopped. She eyed the closed door of the morning room.
    And felt something inside her tighten.
    She paused. At her age, she hardly needed to be missish over being alone for a short time in the morning room with a gentleman. She could go in, greet Trentham, learn why he’d asked to speak with her, all in